


Early in the Morning

by apple_solutely



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Eddie Kaspbrak Can Sing, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, No Plot/Plotless, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25073770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_solutely/pseuds/apple_solutely
Summary: Eddie is rudely woken up and rants internally about his love for Richie while they cuddle.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 125





	Early in the Morning

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely plotless and self-indulgent. I've read other similar work and they wrote it way better for sure, and yet here I am, unable to contain my own emotions. What can I say? Richie and Eddie deserve morning cuddles!!!

Eddie wakes up to the sound of a blaring horn in the distance, outside their window. Groggy, he pulls the front of his eyebrows together, inching away from the sunlight that slips between the crack of their blackout curtains. From what he can tell by a blurry glimpse of the clock, it’s around eight in the morning, which is ungodly and obscenely early for a lazy weekend day. If it weren’t for his fatigue, Eddie would’ve sprung to the window and curse off the driver who decided to execute his road rage at this time of day. He could only be so lucky to have a peaceful morning. Traffic in L.A., turns out, is just as alive as it is in New York. Cars were single-handedly the city’s blood vessels.

It’s only a little bit hypocritical for Eddie to be frustrated. He’s sure he’s been in the same position as that driver at least every day. Unlike Richie, Eddie isn’t a morning person and the irony of being the one out of the two of them to have an office job, requiring him to be an early riser, isn’t lost on him. In fact, he frowns slightly, wondering why Richie isn’t up already, humming show-tunes while frying eggs and brewing hot tea. Their routine involves Eddie grumbling with sluggish feet into the kitchen while Richie passes him a mug and a kiss on the cheek while he scowls.

He shuffles deeper into the cave of their linen blanket, hating the world for inane and unjustified reasons. It’s warm in the room, but not enough to sweat because the air conditioning is on, whirring lowly on full blast to battle the stickiness of summer. Eddie gets cold easily, but it’s not nearly as effective as it should be for he wears cotton, rainbow-colored socks on his feet and of course, Richie is his personal heater. He’s the culprit behind the cooling system in the first place, yet Richie still wakes up with a sheen of sweat while their electricity bills shoot through the roofs. However, it’s not all so bad, Eddie thinks as he scoots closer, unable to not smile at how Richie parts his mouth in his sleep, snoring softly. Myra used to snore. Eddie had to throw back sleeping pills with rubber ear-plugs in for the entirety of their marriage but Eddie is learning that there are quite a lot of contrasts in his marriage with Richie and his marriage with Myra.

Richie might be someone so off the mark for Eddie’s type, yet the dynamic of them fits like a puzzle piece, their sharp banter bouncing off each other like a tennis match. Eddie is happy with Richie and no one else could guarantee the same happiness and contentment he feels when he's by his side. With Myra, and every year spent after leaving Derry, is a dull void. He’s not sure if it were the pills or his magically-induced amnesia—or both, which had him go through the motions of his life in a robotic stance. Some days he barely felt anything, numb with loss and pain he can’t begin to conceptualize into words. Now he feels like an overflowing sink, brimming with endless devotion.

Eddie didn’t realize loving someone could give him the happiness he so longed for and searched for his entire life. He caught his first glimpse of Richie at the Jade of the Orient and at once, his heartbeat stuttered, _oh. That makes a lot of sense. Richie makes sense._

Eddie nuzzles his nose deeper into the crevice of Richie’s neck, inhaling the musky scent of bitter sweat, sweet candy, and a trademark aroma that’s unmistakably _his_. He throws his bare leg over Richie’s, skin bristling at the prickle of manly hair, coating his bulky legs. Richie is so fucking hairy, it drives Eddie batshit because it’s a constant reminder of the lack of femininity and how it switches on this primal swoop of arousal in his groin. The attraction towards men and Richie, in particular, would’ve sent Eddie running for the hills years before. He's come far on this journey of accepting himself and his love for Richie. His mother would have a stroke, combust into flames, revive, and then have another stroke if she could only see the version of him now. This version who goes to therapy, the one who hasn’t used his inhaler in over five years, who counts to seven with every breath, the version of him who doesn’t squirt hand-sanitizer and rubs it in between his fingers, who doesn’t cower at the sight of dirt and the one who kisses Richie like they’re in a fairytale ending of a Disney movie and makes love to, and fucks like they’re in a pornographic film.

If she could just see him now. See him curl a soft hair away from Richie’s face and tuck it gently behind his ear. See him press a feather-light kiss on his jawline where the stubble burns his lips like a spark of fire. And see Richie return his love by reaching out for him. Always for him. The deadlights haunt Richie. His vulnerability peaks in his sleep and he seems to map his big hands over Eddie’s chest immediately—like muscle memory—and touch his scar. To make sure it’s there. To make sure he’s alive and breathing—to feel Eddie’s chest inflate and deflate for himself. Nightmares plague them both, and after Derry, it took ages before they started to fade into the background of their subconscious. No looking back. Only forward. They slept better together, so wrapped up in one another, neither could tell who’s limbs were who’s.

Eddie’s had a love-hate relationship with touch for the majority of his existence. He didn’t necessarily like physical contact at all because people were a foreign concept to him. The first thought in his mind would be: _are they sick? Have they washed their hands? Have they brushed their teeth? Did they shower? Did they floss?_ And on and on it went. But it never stopped Richie. Whether it was an arm thrown over his shoulder, a clingy hug, Eddie’s head under the cage of Richie’s arm as he mussed his hair up, his hand on Eddie’s ankle on the hammock, or just the disguise of an arm wrestle as an excuse to hold hands—all of it never stopped. Neither would Eddie’s shrieks and temper tantrums deter Richie. He grew to love the crinkle-eyed laugh he would receive instead and the sing-song tone of his _cute, cute, cute!_ Richie’s whole being—just him as a person was much too endearing for his own good. He plays it off whenever Eddie flips the script and praises him, telling Richie how cute he is for a change. Eddie supposes they’re both utter shit at receiving compliments.

But Richie is _cute_. He's like Eddie’s human-sized teddy-bear.

Sometimes, the rush of these powerful and vast emotions of affection has Eddie wanting to shout it out from rooftops and mountains, just so he could find a release. He wants to hold Richie and squeeze him for all of eternity. He’s so big, he could eclipse Eddie’s entire body and this only brings attention to how warm and soft he is. And it fits. Richie is soft in places that align perfectly along with Eddie’s stiffer frame, starting from the top of his head where his curls feel velvet-like and heavenly—especially after they switched out his conditioner for a more effective one—and down to his stomach and his plump ass and thighs that give Eddie a run for his money. For all of Richie’s boastful attitude and behavior, his true insecure self hides and peeks out and about in rare occasions of intimacy. Eddie found it both strangely comforting to know he weren’t the only one nervous and almost hurt at the same time, thinking about the prospect. Why were they embarrassed when they shouldn’t be? They’ve been through hell and back together—seen piles of piss and shit plastered on their bodies.

So Richie held on. Eddie held on tighter. So tight that he couldn’t let go even if he’s held at gunpoint. He needed more and nothing could satisfy the craving of want after decades worth of deprivation. Even now, Richie is lying half on his stomach, hands fisted and buried under the pillow, face smushed into the fabric and drool forming in the corner of his crusty mouth, and Eddie _has to_ touch him to quieten down the all-consuming restlessness. He traces heart patterns over his broad back, entranced by the light hair, standing up, and the involuntary shiver that reverberates a small hum from Richie's form.

"Mmm..." Richie leans into the touch lazily, rubbing the side of his foot over Eddie’s socks, and bending his knee, joint popping to slide his own bare leg over Eddie's calf with a smile in the corner, promising mischief.

The weight of Richie is always a welcoming load. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Eddie swallows down the last bit of saliva in his dry mouth, attempting to be rid of his croak.

Richie, without opening his eyes, curls, and un-curls his hands in a 'grabby' way as they coil like magnets, falling into another position in which he's flush along Eddie’s chest with his beefy arms locked around his waist and Richie's steady breath wafting over his nipple. Eddie pulls him closer, kissing the top of his forehead twice while twirling a few strands of his hair. Richie melts further, snuggling deeper inside Eddie’s embrace to get as comfy as he could.

“Good morning, Spaghetti-head.” Eddie huffs upon hearing this, smacking the back of Richie’s head playfully, who dissolves into a lazy, quiet giggle.

“Took you long enough to wake up.” Eddie chides.

Richie tilts his head aloft, one eye open, “I’ve been awake longer than you. You were singing.” He adds the last bit, giddy as Eddie flushes just a bit.

“Oh. I didn’t notice.”

Richie snorts, “You never do.” He presses his lips on the scabbed skin on his mid-section, mumbling, “It was sweet.”

Eddie says, drowsily, “Can’t remember who sang it...”

“Me neither.” Their hands interlock absentmindedly, wedding rings knocking in a tiny clink that never fails to bring a thrill up his spine and his heart to skip a breathless beat. “Good thing we have the internet....” Eddie feels the curl of Richie’s grin and sees his hand crawling towards his belly-button, “The world at your fingertips.” He concludes, proceeding to tickle Eddie and drawing a grunt of laughter from him.

His stomach clenches against lanky fingers, kneeing Richie while he protests. “Get off me, jackass!” He says in between gasping for breath, jerking away from Richie’s persistent prodding, scratching the skin below his sensitive navel.

“Nope. I’m glued to you forever and you’re going to have to deal with it.” Richie replies in a matter-of-fact tone and a small pout.

They halt their mini wrestle-match with mirrored grins of adoration and glee. Eddie can’t believe his luck. They’ve constantly exhausted discussions that carry on late into the night, talking about their childhood and the time lost in between as well as what haunts them both. The two of them are deeply insecure and there had been a time in which they had admitted they would’ve never revealed their feelings if the Losers hadn’t intervened. Eddie and Richie laugh about it now. About how stupid it would’ve been.

As if he senses the nostalgia under Eddie’s soft gaze, Richie narrows his vision down at his lips with dark pupils. His voice is husky in a swirl of lethargic lust, “Kiss me, Eds.”

Eddie obliges, used to the bitter taste of morning breath after so many years, and licks in, which never ceases to make Richie whimper. His hand comes over to cup Eddie's cheek in a tender and greedy grip, urgency strong. A content sigh from Richie. A kiss. “Hasn’t life,” Kiss, “gotten ten times better,” Kiss, “...once we started sleeping buck-ass naked— _fuck, pinch me again_.” He waggles his eyebrows theatrically.

“Shut up, Tozier.”

Richie draws away, raising a feigned angry eyebrow, “Hey! That’s Tozier-Kaspbrak to you, Sex-fiend.”

Eddie scoffs, laughing over Richie's mouth, amused at his husband’s antics, “Sex-fiend?”

“Yeah,” Richie replies as if Eddie were the dumb one, “I already threw my back out last night—thanks to you. Not everyone our age has abs and perfect cardio." He admonishes in jest.

“You didn’t throw your back out! Stop being ridiculous."

“Oh-ho-ho! _Me?_ Ridiculous? Funny you should—"

Eddie captures his mouth again, successfully quietening his husband. “Seriously, Rich. Shut the fuck up.” He’s smiling, though and Richie nods gamely.

“So, round two then?”

“Round three to be exact.” And then Eddie rolls over on top of him with a tired grunt. He pauses over his much paler body, skin-to-skin, with a bubble of sap ballooning his insides, “I love you.”

Richie drowns at hearing those words, sagging into the sheets like a puddle. He just simply stares with his lower lip tucked into his pink, bruised mouth. Richie has always been the more emotionally-equipped out of the two, so Eddie isn’t alarmed by the glassy flash of wetness compiling in those blue eyes. He practically chokes with emotion, swallowing roughly as he tucks his hand on the nape of Eddie’s neck and brings him lower.

Richie brushes his lips on Eddie's open mouth, whispering against them, “I love you more.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the song Early in the Morning by Peter, Paul and Mary. It kept playing in my mind the entire time I wrote this. The song Eddie sings/hums to is Lovely Day by Bill Withers.


End file.
